Echoes of Germania (Tales of Ancient Worlds Book 1)

by H. B. Ashman

  High on the mountain, behind a curtain of smoke, the flickering shimmer of the armor of his war horses descended upon the rebels like falling comets.

  “The cavalry of Rome!” Quintus screamed like a maniac. Marius’s muscles relaxed for a second before tightening again, squeezing the handle of his sword as hard as he could.

  “Charge ahead!” Marius shouted as he stormed up the hill.

  Thousands of men charged with him; their earsplitting cries of hate, frustration, and thirst for revenge echoed up the mountain to make good the promise Rome had made its enemy.

  Arminius tightened his hands around his horse’s reins as it trampled over whoever stood in its way, friend or foe alike. He felt bones crushing beneath the horse’s heavy hooves. He slowed the horse to sink his sword into a rebel. The blade glided into the man’s chest like he was made of butter. With a wet gurgle, the rebel dropped to the ground. Not far from Arminius, Germanicus rode his horse down the hill, crushing men as he went. One of the rebels launched after him, an ax high above his head as he screamed, but Germanicus caught it just in time and swung his sword downward before the rebel’s ax could strike his chest. The man’s head flopped backward before separating entirely. It rolled on the ground before coming to a halt, staring with wide eyes at the horrors of the battle from the afterlife.

  “Destroy their artillery!” Belli’s voice echoed over the platform.

  Arminius scouted the battlefield in front of him. Among the thousands of rebels charging at the cavalry were big wooden structures with enormous rocks lined up behind and next to them. They almost looked like catapults, but instead of hurling projectiles these machines shoved the giant rocks down the hill.

  Without wasting another second, Arminius rode his horse next to an oil lamp sticking out of the ground and pulled it out.

  “Burn their machines!” he shouted over to his men before he steered his horse next to one of the strange structures and smashed the oil side of the lamp onto its wood. Flames shot up, eating the wooden machine.

  Arminius’s horse reared as a rebel jumped at him from behind the burning machine. Arminius turned the reins and gave the horse his spurs to charge at the man, which it did, stomping the rebel to death beneath its iron hooves.

  Arminius scanned the battlefield, his eyes moving quickly. Slowly but surely, the cavalry were being pushed back by the rebels. With that first wave of momentum gone, the limited space of the rebel’s platform made the horses almost useless. He saw a group of rebels pull down one of his riders, burying their axes in his body. Arminius’s gaze darted to the edge of the hill. At first there was nothing but rocks and smoke, but then the first wave of Marius’s infantry swept over the edge of the hill and onto the platform, their bodies clashing against the rebels’.

  Chaos was everywhere. Thousands of men were running into each other, friend and enemy, fighting to their last breath.

  In the middle of it all was Marius, sinking his sword into one rebel after the next, his war cries as loud as the sound of his sword tearing through flesh.

  Even in the heat of battle, Arminius couldn’t help but admire his legate. One kick here, another leap there, men short and tall, old and young, dropped like flies around him. And yet not once did his blood-covered face reflect pride or arrogance. He was truly the most glorious soldier Rome had seen under Augustus—maybe ever.

  Arminius let out a battle cry and jumped off his horse to join his brothers on the blood-soaked ground.

  Amalia’s heart hammered against her chest and throat. The screams and shouts from the nearby battlefield were nothing short of agonizing, and so was the stench. She tasted bile in her mouth.

  She squeezed herself harder against the cold rock surface of the small crevice she was hiding in. Holding her breath, she carefully listened to the metallic ringing of thousands of swords clashing. She pressed her hands to her ears as the rising screams grew louder. A few months ago, she was begging to live someone else’s life, to free herself from her father’s control. What an idiot she’d been. She’d give anything to go back there right now. Maybe this was all a dream—a horrible nightmare—but the sounds of death were too sharp and wild to be fake.

  She lifted her hands from her ears as she heard hoofbeats bolting down the little path near her. She heard men on foot running down the path as well—most likely running for their lives. Was Rome losing?

  Amalia carefully leaned her head out from the safety of her tiny cave. It wasn’t dark yet, but the sun had gone down, sinking the world into a gloomy navy-blue light.

  She peeked around the rock and onto the path. She had been right. She saw men fleeing the battlefield, their faces grimacing in pain and fear. But they weren’t Romans. Their clothing was a bizarre mixture of Roman tunics and wild furs, almost as if they couldn’t decide what look to go for.

  Definitely rebels. Rome was winning.

  Sighing in relief, Amalia pressed herself into the crack she was hiding in once more when a pair of feet came to an abrupt standstill not far from her.

  Amalia could almost taste the fear creeping through her skin. Can he see me? Did I leave footprints?! Her heart thumped so hard it ached, yet her focus was on the shuffling feet and deep huffing breaths.

  She held her own breath and tried to listen to what was going on when someone grabbed her arm and tore her out of the crack, her cheek and chin scratching against the hard rock. She ignored the burning pain and jerked around to find a rebel. He had an ugly scar where his right eye should have been, which made his clenched jaw and fevered stare even more terrifying.

  “You,” he growled as he pulled a knife from his belt.

  Amalia didn’t wait to find out what he was going to do next. She grabbed his arm, planted a foot, and threw him onto his face with a knee wheel.

  The man hit the ground hard, a painful groan escaping his lips. She turned and ran. What else could she do? This wasn’t a judo match. Tapping out was not an option.

  She darted over the path in front of her, bolting toward the battlefield. If Rome was winning, surely they would save her.

  Amalia had just made it around a patch of trees and rocks at the beginning of the rebel platform when she froze. Even while fleeing for her life, the realities of an ancient battlefield struck her numb.

  Dead and wounded were scattered everywhere, and thousands of fighting soldiers trampled over them. Horrific screams and cries filled the air.

  Her eyes fell onto a Roman soldier stabbing a rebel into the neck, blood shooting out like a fountain. Another Roman soldier was chasing after a fleeing rebel who was missing both arms, his eyes bulging as he stumbled over a corpse and plunged forward like a falling tree.

  She heard a loud creaking noise and turned to see one of the enormous machines the rebels were using to roll rocks down the hill. It was on fire. Thick black clouds of smoke bled into the sky as the catapult-like construction cracked under its own weight, unleashing a rock sideways onto the platform. It rolled into the crowd of soldiers, crushing Romans and rebels alike.

  Her whole body trembled as her hands shot up to cover her mouth. This was worse than any movie she’d ever seen.

  “You whore!” she heard a deep voice call after her. Amalia swirled around. It was her attacker again, his knife pointing at her. He launched forward, stabbing at her, but Amalia’s hands shot for his wrist with a double butterfly guard. She used the force and speed of his strike to turn the man and twist his arm behind his back. The rebel threw himself onto his knees to avoid hyperextending his wrist and shoulder joints. But Amalia pushed until she felt his joints pop.

  The rebel threw his head back and screamed in pain, but that didn’t stop her. She jumped on his shoulders and rolled onto her side while grabbing her ankle with both hands. The rebel was now stuck in a triangular choke hold under her right leg.

  Amalia channeled all her strength into that choke hold. Her blood boiled, but her stomach felt ice cold. She couldn’t keep running. Not in a world like this. Here, there were on
ly those who died and those who killed. She squeezed with all her strength.

  The rebel’s grunts turned into spitting coughs and wheezes as he kicked and frantically tore at her leg, but to no avail. The harder he fought, the tighter her grip grew. His sour breath and sweat stung her nostrils.

  Amalia glanced down at his face. His one eye bulged out, blood red, opened wide in terror. It made her sick. Her eyes started burning with tears.

  She tore her gaze away and jerked her head sideways toward the battle. Her sight fell onto a group of Romans, among them Germanicus, whose blood-covered hands knifed a short rebel over and over again with quick jabs.

  She squeezed her legs harder.

  Not far from him was Arminius, fighting back to back with Belli, dropping one rebel after the next as mud and blood splashed like rain.

  Her arms began to shake.

  A Roman soldier on fire caught Amalia’s attention. He burned silently as he swung himself from left to right then dropped to the ground.

  Don’t let go. Don’t let go, goddamn it!

  Then her watery eyes found Marius Vincius. He ducked under an ax like it was nothing. His sword jabbed forward, piercing a rebel through the chest. He kicked the man’s body to free his sword. Another rebel charged at him with a spear, which Marius grabbed, and, in one fluid motion, redirected into the ground. The man fell forward onto his stomach, right in front of Marius, who rammed his sword into the rebel and the ground beneath him.

  Amalia turned her head up to the evening sky. Hot tears were running down her cheeks. In movies, they never really showed how long it actually took to choke someone to death—it took for-goddamn-ever. The worst moment of her life, stretched out into eternity. Her arms and legs started shaking uncontrollably, yet she didn’t let go.

  She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. Above her, the sky looked peaceful—almost magical in its indifference. The first stars started to sparkle up high as the cries around her slowly grew silent.

  Amalia felt her strength fade. She couldn’t hold on anymore. She was about to let go when, finally, the man’s body grew still, limp, and peaceful. Amalia relaxed her muscles, but didn’t let go, her gaze fixed on the sky. She held him like that, her tired eyes glazing over, empty—like her.

  Chapter Eighteen

  T he woods and mountains were covered in darkness. Only the fires from the battle on the hill and mountain platform lit the night like little oil lamps. It had a strange beauty to it.

  Lucius, Gnaeus, and Kinu were standing in front of Lucius’s tent when they heard the eruption of cheers and horn blasts. Marius had done the impossible—he had won.

  The few remaining soldiers in Lucius’s camp shot their fists into the air and shouted in tune with the victory chants of their brothers in the distance.

  Lucius clenched his jaw. He couldn’t believe it. He should be pleased. Rome had crushed the rebellion, and he was part of this victory. And yet he could not help but feel sick at the thought of Rome bowing to House Vincius once more.

  Lucius turned to see Gnaeus, fist raised, hollering through the night like the others.

  “Oh, shut up!” Lucius barked at him, and returned to his tent. The inside was lit with oil lamps. Gnaeus followed him like a beaten puppy, but Lucius turned at the entrance to block his way.

  “Where are you going?”

  Gnaeus exchanged looks with Kinu, who dropped his gaze.

  “Inside . . . with you.”

  “No, you are not. Go get a horse and ride to the battlefield! See if Marius can make use of you. If we are lucky, people might think you fought with him instead of hiding your incompetence behind your father’s cloak!”

  Gnaeus threw Kinu a hateful glare, as if his father’s anger was somehow the old slave’s fault. Then he turned and left.

  Lucius walked over to the table. “Go grab me papyrus and pen.”

  “Not the wooden sheet, my Praetor?”

  “No. This message is for Augustus. We shall inform him of my victory.”

  Kinu rushed to grab the expensive paper and a pen. “Are we to mention Vincius?”

  Lucius grimaced. “We have to. But we will make certain that Rome receives our message first. We shall inform Rome that Lucius Ahenobarbus has won this battle with Marius Vincius under his command.”

  Kinu nodded. “Very wise.”

  A centurion appeared suddenly at the tent’s entrance. “My Praetor,” he said. He was clean, no mud or blood on his silver crest. He was obviously a man of Lucius’s guard, and had taken no part in the battle.

  Lucius threw him a curt nod. “Speak.”

  “There is a rebel who wants to see you.”

  Lucius narrowed his eyes. “A rebel? Is it King Pinnes?”

  “No, my Praetor.”

  “Then kill him.”

  The centurion remained at the entrance, the worry on his face illuminated by one of the golden oil lanterns hanging from the ceiling.

  “What else?” Lucius yelled at him, as he walked back to the table where Kinu had placed the paper and pen.

  “The rebel. It is Bato the Breucian.”

  Lucius froze for a moment, then looked up at his centurion. “Bato the Breucian?” he muttered, his brow rising.

  The centurion nodded. “In flesh and blood.”

  Lucius tapped his lower lip with his index finger. “Who else knows he is here?”

  “Not many. Only some of the guards.”

  “Good. Keep it this way and get him here quickly.”

  “Yes, my Praetor.” The centurion disappeared into the dimly lit camp. Lucius and Kinu exchanged looks.

  “What does he want?” Kinu asked.

  “I don’t know, but whatever it is he must think it worth risking his life.” Lucius grabbed his cup of wine with a grin. “The roads to Rome are not built by the men who die in the mines or set the stones, my dear Kinu. Like everything of importance, they are forged by a few people who write the play.”

  “Wise words, my Praetor,” Kinu said, refilling Lucius’s cup.

  Lucius’s smile grew. “Let us sit and watch the play. I have a feeling I will like what Bato has to say.”

  “Amalia!” Arminius’s voice woke her from a deep slumber. Her arms and legs felt weak, her head pulsated in pain.

  “Amalia!” he shouted again. He shook her gently by her shoulders.

  Slowly, Amalia opened her eyes. Arminius was kneeling between her legs, his face inches away from hers. He looked tired. Blood and dirt were smeared on his neck and cheeks.

  Amalia looked around. She was leaning against a tree in the woods, its hard, cold bark pressing into her back. The sky was the grey of early morning. A depressing cloud of fog swallowed the woods around her, a fitting scene for the morning after such a battle.

  “What happened? Are you injured?” Arminius asked, his forehead wrinkled in worry, his warm hands firm on her shoulders.

  Amalia straightened her back and rubbed her stiff neck. “No. I don’t think so.”

  Arminius sighed, one of his hands slipping off her shoulder.

  “By Jupiter,” he said, shaking his head. “Did I not tell you to stay in the cave? I thought you were dead!” He ran his hand through his sticky hair. Amalia watched him, amazed. She’d never seen Arminius so emotional before.

  Suddenly, the memory of what happened last night came back to her, sending icy waves through her body all over again. The screams, the blood, the stench . . . the man she killed with her own hands. The look on his face when the light in his eyes started to fade. The thought made her want to vomit.

  “A rebel attacked me,” Amalia said. “I killed him, and then I must have walked over here and passed out.”

  Arminius lifted her chin, looking into her eyes. “You did well to kill him. Did he hurt you?”

  Amalia wanted to answer, but the gentleness in his gaze robbed her of her words.

  Arminius opened his mouth to say something, but the sound of hooves hitting the ground caught his attention.

&n
bsp; “Arminius!” Germanicus shouted as he rode up to the two of them. “Marius has ordered all men to the building site.”

  Arminius nodded and rose. Germanicus looked down at Amalia.

  “You have been seen on the battlefield with us,” he said in a serious tone. “What they say about the Germanic women is true. You people north of the Rhine River are warriors like no other.”

  Amalia stared back at him, her face blank. She hadn’t fought for Rome, her slavers. She hadn’t killed a man to gain respect. What she did last night was to save her life, nothing more.

  Carefully testing her legs, Amalia pushed herself onto her feet as Arminius walked back to his horse and mounted. She expected him to charge off, but instead he rode his horse right next to her and reached down his hand.

  Amalia stared at him. She hadn’t been allowed on a horse since they found her by the lake. What changed? You are a killer now, she thought. A tool of Rome.

  “Come,” Arminius said, stretching his hand even farther. Amalia grabbed it and let Arminius pull her onto the horse.

  As disgusted as she felt for what she had done last night, the horse’s trot was soothing. She let the motion lull her as she leaned into Arminius, exhausted.

  Arminius gave the horse his heels, and it launched from a trot into a gallop. Amalia’s arms shot around Arminius’s waist, clinging to him. It felt weird being so close to Arminius. He smelled of leather and mud.

  They rode for about two miles when the horses emerged from the woods and onto a small field where a marching camp had already been erected. Its trenches were deeper than she’d seen before, its wooden spiked walls as high as the tallest trees.

  It was nothing short of astonishing how these men managed to keep going and going. The level of discipline, endurance, and organization the Romans demonstrated over and over again was mind-boggling. It made sense to her now that Rome had managed to conquer half the world.

  Germanicus and Arminius slowed their horses near the entrance of the marching camp and dismounted. Amalia looked at Arminius in confusion.